My Name is of No Importance
by Darien Fawkes
Summary: The story of a fixer.


My name...is of no importance. I would say you couldn't find it, but in my line of business, I know better. Anyone can be found. Any time, any place, there's always a trace. It's the business I've been a part of the whole of my adult life.

I could tell you a long and boring story about how I was abused by some uncle as a kid, or how I was bullied in school but none of that would be true. In all honesty, my life before I became an adult was pretty boring. I happened to find this world as a happy accident. I found out I had a bit of a flair with technology in my early teens, and by my twenties I was able to hack anything from bank accounts to the FBI. There's not much you can't do with a computer nowadays if you know where to look for answers.

Car alarms are still blaring after the fire fight. I'm crouched down behind some rusted out piece of shit in a parking lot that has more leaks than a colander. No one with any brains is still anywhere near here after the shit storm we brought down a few minutes ago, which can only beg the question. What does that say about me?

I get up, stepping around the car, and slowly approach the man bleeding out on the concrete before me. He's already taken a couple of rounds through the chest, it won't be long, but in my line of work, you don't leave anything to chance. Rule 1, confirm the kill.

As I approach him, he isn't what I expect. He's an old man. Well, old from my point of view. He's somewhere in his fifties. He has thick stubble covering his face, like he hasn't shaven in weeks. I know he hasn't, he's had other priorities, namely me. His clothes are worn and dirty, and his eyes are dark, like he hasn't slept in days. Again, I know that's probably true.

His eyes...they're bloodshot. Not just from the fight, or the smoke or the dust of the war-zone we've just created in the middle of Chicago, but also fatigue. I can see something else in them as I stand over him, staring into them as he stares back. Resignation. He knows what's coming. He's delivered it himself so many times, he doesn't take it personally. If anything, he almost looks happy that soon it's all going to be over. I hit the release catch on my Desert Eagle, letting the magazine hit the concrete, before sliding in another and cocking the slide to chamber the first round. He just nods to me.

"Do it right." He tells me. I do just that as a professional courtesy. There's no need for him to suffer. I put a round straight through his forehead, ending it in an instant. After taking a quick picture on my phone to send to the client to confirm the job is done, I leave him where he is. I can already hear sirens, and I really don't want to be here when the Chicago PD arrive.

For a city with the most comprehensive surveillance system in the world, it's remarkably easy to get around. I manage to jack some asshole's Porsche from the disabled parking bay outside a gym while he's playing squash. To most it's inconceivable how much evil there is in the city. CTOS, their watch dog promises them safety and security. That's why when something like the human trafficking ring that came out in the press a few years back are portrayed so prominently in the press. Things like that shouldn't happen, they DON'T happen in the city watched over by the watch dog that is ctOS. I know better. After the blackout, some asshole politician decided the best way to keep everyone safe was to integrate all public services under a single system. To hackers...it was a dream come true. It was like saying because one guy got his pocket picked, everyone had to leave all their money in one room of one house. All it did was make it clear that to control everything, you only had one place to look. Good job Washington.

I get back to the flea-pit apartment I've rented for the night. I never stay anywhere more than one night, and I don't own more than I can carry in one bag. Dumping my jacket on the bed, I put in a call to the burner phone I've left for my client.

"It's done." I tell him.

"I...it is?" He asked.

"You doubt my work?" I ask in response. "You should have the picture by now."

"Jesus, you did it! You actually did it!" He replies. "Shit, I didn't think anyone could..."

"Don't bother with praise, if you're happy with my work, just leave a bonus with the payment." I interrupt him. The man on the other end is clearly relieved. He has a right to be. The man I just killed was coming for him, my job was a counter-contract. If I hadn't finished it tonight, the odds were that my employer wouldn't have been alive to pay me for the job.

"Of course, of course." He answered. "You're right, you finished the job admirably. I'll add a healthy bonus. Just give me the account details..."

"That wasn't the deal!" I remind him.

"I was going to wire..."

"That wasn't the deal. You know the deal." I tell him. "Cash, dead drop, no witnesses. That's the deal."

"About that...um...it's going to be difficult." He responded. "It is a lot of money to carry around in public..."

"Let me worry about that." I interrupt him.

"And it's going to be difficult to get it together in such a short time." He continues. "I can have a wire..."

"How's Katie?" I ask him. The line goes silent.

"My ex-wife?" He replies.

"I know where she lives." I warn him. "I know you probably don't care about that, not with how much she skinned you in the divorce, but something tells me you do care about Michael and little Melanie."

I send over a video to make a point. I make a point of finding leverage on my clients before I take a job. If someone decides not to pay me for a job, it's not like I can go to the Better Business Bureau or take them to court.

"She made such a lovely fairy princess in her school play." I tell him, knowing he's gotten the video I had taken of her. "She has a birthday coming up soon doesn't she? Eight is such a precious..."

"Alright, alright I get the point." The client interrupts me. "I'll do as you asked. Dead drop, five mil, the place we agreed."

"Good." I put down flatly. "Pleasure doing business."

"It definitely has." The client tells me. "You have no idea how much of a weight off my mind this is, thank..."

"Don't thank me." I tell him. "The odds are one of my future contracts will be on you."

With that, I hang up and toss the phone in the trash. He knows better than to call again, even if it wasn't a burner phone. Rule 3, when the job's done, get paid and walk away. Don't hang around.

I go to the counter where my victory dance is waiting, a large brown paper bag. I pull the bottle of Jack out of it and grab a plastic cup from the sink, pouring myself a shot. It's been a good night. The job is done, I'm getting paid, and most importantly, I walked away. The other guy didn't.

The week goes by quickly. I could have been paid more quickly if I'd gone with a wire transfer, but I try to leave as few tracks as possible. It's the reason I never stay in the same motel for longer than a night, and I've never owned a home or an apartment. Parking the car I've stolen to get here in the parking lot of the graveyard, I make my way to the drop site.

I move slowly. There are people around and I really don't want to draw attention to myself. I stop by a memorial, crouching down as though I'm here to speak to a loved one. I don't know who this person is, and frankly I really don't care. I just need a few minutes with no one looking at me.

I cast a glance over to the open grave, where a service is taking place.

It's a small turnout, only two mourners. It's a poor turnout given who he was. He's a legend, even in death, but there's so few people that want to be seen here. Aiden Pearce was a legend, the man that rid Chicago of Lucky Quinn and single-handedly reduced crime by almost seventy percent deserves much better than what happened to him. Of course, those that called him a hero can't be seen to support him, preferring instead to post positive messages of support on forum boards behind false names thinking that keeps their identities safe. Most don't realise how easily someone who knows how can trace that. Those that called him a menace also can't be seen here, they don't want to risk reprisals. In the end, there are only two people here to say goodbye.

His sister, Nicky Pearce came in on a budget flight last night. She hasn't been back to Chicago since she disappeared all those years ago. She had fled the city, not even stopping to gather her belongings from her house, a sure sign that Aiden's life had caught up to her, and the reason she couldn't safely return. I found her as part of my search. She's got a decent life now, nothing spectacular, she works in a pharmacy in Kentucky now.

The kid beside her is her son Jackson. He's eighteen now. It was a lot harder to find him. I actually had to have someone fax over a copy of a document from his local library. He works on a farm out there now. He's not registered digitally since he left Chicago, the kid doesn't even own a cell phone anymore. I can't say I blame him. Given what happened to the Pearce family, it's no surprise the kid went to great lengths to get as far away from the digital map as humanly possible. He couldn't be further off the grid if he moved to the Sahara. In some ways, he's probably the smart one.

Once the service is over and they leave, the grave diggers are about to begin. That's when I make my move. I head over, looking to them and hold out a couple of hundred bucks.

"Take a break." I tell them. They don't question me. They just head off somewhere for a few minutes, leaving me with the open grave. I hop inside, landing by the casket.

I open it, finding Aiden inside, in a clean, pressed suit. The undertaker did remarkable work cleaning him up after the shoot-out. It's a good thing all things considered. He deserves to be laid to rest with that dignity at least. I roll him aside, reaching under him and pulling out the bag. My payment is there, in cash as agreed.

Closing over the casket, I climb out of the grave and make my way back to the parking lot, already thinking about how to spend the cash. I never bother to save anything. The most important rule, Rule 3, I get paid cash, I buy everything I ever want and enjoy it while I can. I know exactly what Aiden knew. Anyone can be found, and eventually they will. There's only one way this story ends. My name is of no importance. I am the man that killed the Vigilante, Aiden Pearce, and I know that one day someone will come for me.

Fin.


End file.
